by Luana Lewis
The spray of cold droplets pierced her skin, like needles. She was shaking. He picked up the bottle of hand soap from the basin, unscrewed the lid and poured it over her head and her shoulders.
‘Scrub,’ he said. ‘I’m watching. Everywhere.’
She did as she was told. There was too much soap and it lathered easily. At least the water was warmer now. She wanted to scrub every bit of him off her; she didn’t care about DNA. She rubbed the soap over her closed eyes and pressed her fingers hard into her scalp. She washed her arms, breasts, stomach and between her legs. She was careful not to look down. She feared she would see blood across the white enamel of the bathtub. She didn’t want to know.
She held on to the handrail, unsteady, fixing her eyes on the grey lines between the white tiles, as she reached down to wash her feet. She wondered if she had been punished enough or if there was worse still to come. She wanted to crawl away somewhere, into her flat, put the chain on the door and pull the curtains shut and just hide and never come out.
Simpson turned off the water and handed her a towel. She was grateful for the small gesture of kindness. She had no intention of running away or fighting back. She was weak.
‘My daughter is too old to be adopted, so she’ll probably stay with her useless mother or go into long-term foster care. I’ll still have contact with her. In a few years, she’ll see what a weak, useless bitch her mother is, and she’ll come back to me of her own free will. And there’s nothing any one of you meddling cunts can do about it. And you’ll have your memories of me.’
She saw his fingers curl into a fist, but he checked himself, relaxed his hand, pushed his fringe back from his face. His jaw was still tight. She was sure he ached to hit her, but he wouldn’t want to leave any marks easily visible to the world.
She wrapped her arms around her chest.
She was very cold again, the shaking grew worse. The pain between her legs was acute and blood trickled down her legs. She felt sick at the thought of the damage. She was in shock. She couldn’t push down the nausea any longer, she dropped down and retched into the toilet bowl. She stayed there, kneeling, relieved to be looking away from him.
‘Tell the A and E team it was a bit of rough sex with a one-night stand,’ he said. ‘That’s what I’d recommend anyway.’
She nodded.
He gave her one last appraisal as she knelt in front of the toilet, in pain, trembling, naked, grasping at the edge of the bowl. He ran his fingers through his fringe one more time and then turned and left the bathroom.
She managed a few deep breaths. The pain throbbed so much she felt she was split in two. She had no strength.
She gathered herself together, a second or two, then crawled to the door. She reached up and turned the lock. She sank to the floor, grasping at the too-small hand towel, pulling it tight around her shoulders, putting her head between her knees to try to stop the room from spinning. She thought she heard the front door slam shut, but she couldn’t be sure.
There was no window. She had no watch so she couldn’t tell how much time had passed. She lay down on the tiles, curled on her side. Her thoughts slowed, her limbs became heavy and then all she could think of was water. She needed a drink of water. She wanted to stand up and turn on the tap, but she didn’t have the energy. She craved a nice hospital bed with crisp white sheets and lots of painkillers.
Her hip and shoulder ached where they pressed against the cold, hard floor. The overhead light reflected off the white tiles. She must have slept, a little. She sensed she was alone in the quiet building. She pulled herself up to a sitting position, staying there until her head cleared. She reached up to grip the basin with her right hand. She gasped at the sharp stabbing between her legs as she tried to stand. She bit her lip until the pain eased. Her legs were weak, but they held her upright. She closed her eyes, stayed still for a second to check she would not fall. She didn’t want to think about the pain or the damage that might have been done. She needed a doctor. She so badly wanted her clothes. She unlocked the door, waited a second, opened it. The passage was in darkness. She felt safer in the dark, she’d been exposed enough. The photographs. They might be up on the internet already. Simpson had won. She had submitted to him completely. He had ensured that she would forever be vulnerable; degraded. It’s only a body.
Stella felt her way along the wall to the office and once inside she moved slowly in the dim light that filtered through the shutters. She did not want to see this room ever again. She just wanted her clothes. They were still there, folded over the arm of the chair. She dressed, taking care to make only small, slow movements.
Her bag was still propped against the desk where she had left it. She slipped her feet into her shoes. Even the low heels were a source of pain, so she took them off again and put them into her tote. She put the bag over her shoulder, still holding her mobile phone. The building remained hushed.
She was sure she was alone.
She trailed her hand along the wall again, until she reached the top of the staircase. The thick pile was comforting under her feet as she made her way down, carefully, one step at a time, clutching the banister for support.
She walked to the front door and pulled on it to check it was locked. Simpson had shut it when he left and he wouldn’t be able to get back in. She fastened the security chain, then hobbled over to a chair in the waiting room and thought about what to do. Through the slats in the blinds, she could see headlights passing on Grove Road. The only number she could remember was 999 so that’s what she dialled. After one ring, she disconnected the call. There was another number for non-emergency matters, but she couldn’t remember it. She didn’t want to talk to strangers. She didn’t want anyone else examining her, hurting her, humiliating her.
Her eyes had adjusted to the murky light and she could see perfectly well. She still had no idea what to do. She moved to the sofa and drew her legs underneath her. She considered staying that way until Monday. She thought of her privacy and of her career. She needed advice.
After a few rings, he answered. She wondered where he was, on a Friday night. If he was out with Hannah and Izzy and the rest of her friends.
‘Pete,’ she said. ‘It’s Stella.’
‘Stella,’ he said. He sounded pleased to hear from her.
She was silent, she couldn’t think what to say.
‘Are you all right?’ he asked.
‘Listen – can you come and see me?’ she said.
‘Sure.’
‘It’s not what you think. I need some advice. And please don’t tell anyone else.’
‘OK,’ he said. ‘Tell me where you are.’
While she waited for him to arrive, she ransacked Anne’s neatly ordered drawers, looking for painkillers. All she could find was paracetamol. She managed to swallow a few. She needed something stronger. She wasn’t bleeding any more, that was the important thing, her clothes were dry. Any damage was on the inside.
She had bad cramps. She went back to curl up on the leather chesterfield in the waiting room. She had forgotten to ask where Peter was and she didn’t know how long it would take him to get to the clinic. She wanted him to hurry. She felt as though she’d been in a car accident, battered and bruised and raw.
At ten o’clock she heard a car pull up on the driveway at the front of the building. She peered out: Peter was climbing out of his Golf. She walked gingerly to the front door, took off the shiny brass chain and turned the large brass lock.
‘What’s happened to you?’ he asked, when she peered out.
‘Come in.’
She switched on the light in the hall, but used the dimmer to turn it down to the minimum setting. She supposed she looked pale, but she didn’t think Simpson had left any marks. She couldn’t find any words, it was exhausting, to have to tell him, to have to live through it all again.
‘Could you please make me a cup of tea?’ That was all she could manage. ‘There’s a kitchen at the top of the stairs – it’s small, y
ou’ll find everything. Milk and lots of sugar.’
He did as she requested without asking any questions and she was relieved. But she wondered if it had been wise to telephone a police officer. The last thing she felt like was explaining. She pulled a small cushion over her lap.
The tea was milky and not too hot. He had to hold the cup steady for her. The sweetness helped to steady her, to stop her head feeling so light it might lift off her shoulders. He sat facing her on the sofa, solid and dependable.
‘What were you doing when I called?’ she asked.
She needed a little more time.
‘Studying for my DI exam on Monday.’
She nodded. She had dragged him out to St John’s Wood when he should be at home studying for the most important exam of his career and now she didn’t want to tell him what had happened.
‘You look like you need a doctor,’ he said.
‘I just need a few more minutes. To sit here.’
‘It’s OK.’ He was patient, but observant too. She took another sip of the milky, sweet tea. She felt better, safer, now that he was with her.
‘I’m sorry about this,’ she said.
‘Don’t worry about it.’
She felt a little less weak, a little less like she might keel over at any moment. ‘Did you always want to be a policeman?’ she asked.
‘Since I was fifteen. I came home from school and our house had been broken into – they smashed a window at the back. My mother’s jewellery was taken, nothing valuable, but everything she’d inherited from her mother. The house was a total mess. And the worst part was that our cat ran away. I found her lying in the road, hit by a car. I was so angry. I just wanted to go out and find them and get revenge.’
‘And here you are,’ she said.
Her mug was empty. She had automatically placed it on top of a magazine, so there would be no stain on Anne’s wooden coffee table.
‘Do you want another cup?’ he asked.
She shook her head.
‘Are you ready to talk?’
She told him then, in detail – as though she were writing it up in a report. Dispassionately. Everything. The most degrading parts. She tried to speak as though it had happened to someone else and not to herself and to stay clear and calm.
Peter put his arm around her shoulder and squeezed. She wasn’t afraid of his touch. He put his lips to her forehead.
‘I’ll come with you to the police station,’ he said. ‘I’ll stay with you. They’ll get you a doctor.’
‘I haven’t decided yet – if I want to report it,’ she said.
‘The quicker you do, the quicker they can pick him up.’
She took a deep breath, let it out slowly. ‘I need to think about it,’ she said. ‘That’s why I called you first. I want to know what will happen if I do report it.’
He kept his arm around her shoulders and she leaned into him.
‘I’ll take you down to the nearest station – Swiss Cottage. We can ask for a female police officer. You’ll tell her exactly what you told me. They’ll get a doctor to examine you and take swabs for DNA evidence. They’ll want to treat the clinic as a crime scene, they might find evidence here. But we need to act quickly in case the bastard decides to run.’
‘I don’t think he will. There’s a court case in progress, he’s trying to get custody of his daughter. And he thinks he’s safe.’
‘Did he threaten you with anything?’
‘He said he’d put photographs on the internet. And that he would say that we had a relationship – something that would imply that I’d violated my ethical code. He’ll say it wasn’t a scheduled appointment, that I invited him here for sex after hours. We once bumped into each other in a restaurant, he bought me a drink, there were lots of witnesses. Long story.’
‘You don’t have to explain,’ he said. ‘Are you ready?’
The shivering had begun again and the entire surface of her skin was burning, at the same time, she was freezing cold. The last shreds of her dignity would be shattered under the bright lights of the police station, everybody would know. The careful façade she had created behind her title – Dr Davies – would be stripped away. It would be her word against his. They would dredge up her history. An interview at the police station, followed by a court case, would be an extended version of what she had gone through upstairs at the hands of Lawrence Simpson. It wasn’t worth it. She had had enough. She couldn’t bear any more. She was hanging on to herself with her fingernails, keeping herself together when she felt she would collapse, would fly apart, would finally crumble and give up.
‘You’re in shock,’ he said. ‘Another half an hour won’t matter. I’ll wait with you.’
‘I’m so cold,’ she said. He sat close, reached over and put both arms around her. She wanted to stay that way, and never have to move and never have to remember. She fixed her eyes on the deep red leather of the chesterfield. Hundreds and hundreds of buttons began to swirl in front of her.
‘Do you want me to call someone for you?’ he asked.
‘No one. I don’t want anyone to know. I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I can’t go through with this. I’m not going to report what happened.’
She could report what Simpson had done to her, but the public ignominy would be shared between them. One way or another, she would be called in front of an ethics committee. Her photograph might appear in the newspapers and the professional persona she had worked so hard to earn would rupture. She knew how short prison sentences for rape could be – and that was if they even secured a conviction.
She had a choice: she could keep her mouth shut, withdraw from the Simpson report, carry on with her life. Pretend.
‘Stella, it’s not my decision to make but I think it’s critical that you go to the police. Tonight.’
‘If I go to the police,’ she said, ‘then I can’t revoke my statement, can I? They can investigate, even if I ask them not to.’
He nodded.
She shook her head. ‘I can’t.’
‘Technically,’ he said, ‘I could report this myself.’
‘You wouldn’t do that to me.’ She looked him straight in the eyes. ‘Tell me you won’t do that.’
‘I know you’re in shock,’ he said, ‘but it’s important that you make a police report.’
‘You’re saying that because you’re a policeman.’
‘I’m saying it because I care. It’s the best thing for you. He’s still out there, he could hurt someone else. And if he’s not arrested, you’ll live in fear.’
She pulled away. ‘Pete, we’ve been friends for years, but you don’t know everything about me.’
The churning sensation in her stomach was settling and so was the buzzing in her head; all of it was quietening down. Her lower back still ached and so she leaned back and carefully lifted her feet one at a time, putting them up on the coffee table. She thought about how much Anne would hate the sight of her feet on the magazines.
‘I need to talk to my boss. He’s a psychiatrist. I need to get another perspective. I need to think about what it’s going to do to my career if this comes out.’ Her voice sounded stronger, but when she looked down, her hands were still trembling. She couldn’t remember Max’s mobile number, even though she knew it off by heart.
‘Can you dial for me?’ she asked.
She handed Peter her phone. ‘Press the green button,’ she said. ‘Then press M, his name comes up first: Max.’
Hilltop, 1.30 a.m.
The window had exploded; she hadn’t expected it to be so loud. Glass everywhere. She hadn’t meant to smash the window. She couldn’t remember why she’d done that. Sometimes, her anger got the better of her. Her crazy part. Hate was everywhere inside her, like fire, burning her alive.
She ran for the trees at the back of the garden. The cold hit her, like a blast from a gun, burning her eyes and her mouth and her ears. She had forgotten how bad it was outside.
Shit. Fuck.
He w
as calling her, coming after her.
She had made a really bad mistake. All she wanted was to get home again, to her bed. To her mother. There must be a way out of this place. But once she got inside the trees there was only blackness. She didn’t know what to do. She couldn’t see; she couldn’t find a path. Only dark. Black, freezing cold. She had to slow down. She counted ten, small shuffling steps, holding her hands out straight in front of her. A million needles were poking into her palms. Her knees buckled and she sank down into the soft cushion of snow.
‘BLUE!’
The police don’t help. They don’t believe a word you say.
The freezing air pierced and stabbed her face. Her hands stung so badly it was driving her mad. All she wanted was to lie down. If she stayed out in the snow, she knew she would give up; she would go to sleep and probably die. She had wanted to smash that stupid fat green statue straight into the wife’s head.
They would take her away from her mother. Again.
She hated Max Fisher. She hated him most of all. She wanted a knife, to slice up her arms and let the rage and the cold bleed out of her. She pushed her raw hands into her pockets, feeling carefully for the piece of glass: a long, thin triangle.
But as the cold took over, the fire inside her faded. She gave up. She put her head between her knees and waited. She would let them do whatever they wanted to her. She didn’t want to be out in the snow. She didn’t really want to die. She wasn’t crazy.
She heard him, coming closer, his boots crunching. She closed her eyes. Invisible. He just stood there. He didn’t try to grab her or anything.
‘Let’s go back to the house,’ he said. ‘You don’t need to be frightened.’
She lifted her head and held out her hands. ‘I’m bleeding.’
He bent down to take a look. She lifted her arms, higher. He lifted her up.
She reached around his neck and laid her head on his shoulder. She closed her eyes, pretending it was him. His hands were around her waist and under her knees. She felt like she was about six years old. He walked, slow and steady, and she felt peaceful, being carried. It was so quiet.
